Love you through it
by I'llbeyourPatronus
Summary: Something is wrong with Sherlock, and it's up to John to see if he can hold them both together through it and come out breathing on the other side. Eventual John/Sherlock. For my lovely BlooMist. Slow updates.
1. Symptoms

Title: Love you through it  
>Summary: Something is wrong with Sherlock, and it's up to John to see if he can hold them both together and come out breathing on the other side. For my lovely BlooMist. Eventual JohnSherlock  
>Rating: T (Rating may go up)<br>Disclaimer: Sadly, I own no part of the BBC's Sherlock, nor Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's eternal characters Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. I just like to play with them.

**February 21st, 2012-** Attention my wonderful readers, if you got an alert from me I am sad to say that I took down my second chapter to re-write it. I realised that I wanted to do more with it and hopefully I'll get it to you soon!

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><p>"Damn it all!" The exclamation was all John heard before the sound of glass breaking up against a wall. He padded up the stairs to their flat, anxiously quickening his steps. Sherlock liked to throw fits, but this was...different. Something had been wrong with the consulting detective for a while now; he was more agitated, more frustrated than usual. John would have wrote it off as boredom between cases, but that wasn't it. Lestrade had just handed them a particularly difficult case that seemed to be a puzzle even for Sherlock. No, this was definitely different. That thought alone had John racing into the living room of their flat, eyes searching for Sherlock as they always did. He was sitting on the couch, dressing gown billowing out around him, his hands covering his face, shoulders tense. John could see the straining in his neck and knew the detective's jaw was clenched.<p>

"Sherlock?"

The detective didn't respond, but instead uncovered his face, his mouth set in a pout. John was too busy staring at him, worry lining his features, that he almost missed it. Almost missed the tremor that ran through Sherlock's hands as he hastily shoved them into the pockets of his robe, effectively hiding them from view.

John's eyes narrowed in suspicion as he lowered himself onto the couch next to his friend. "Sherlock... What's wrong with your hand?"

Sherlock sighed and went to run a hand over his face before he stopped himself. Not good. "It's _nothing_ John. I'm _fine_."

"Well you don't look it. Let me see your hand."

Sherlock ignored him in favour of reaching for his cell phone, with his left hand.

"Sherlock I'm serious. Just let me see your damn hand!"

"I said I'm fine John! Now stop fussing and leave me ALONE!"

With that, Sherlock turned to the side in a fury of cloth, curling his knees up and burying his head in the cushion of the couch.

"Fine Sherlock! If you're going to act like a bloody child about it then fine! See if I care!" John stormed into the kitchen and busied himself with making some tea. He unconsciously began preparing one for Sherlock, but thought better of it and left the cup on the table_. If he's going to be like this then he can bloody well get it himself!_ The doctor stalked into the living room, his eyes searching for his laptop. _Of course Sherlock used it. God forbid he go across the room to get his own, no, that was too much WORK_. John sighed and went to the side of the couch that Sherlock was sitting on, set down his tea and grumbled as he picked up his laptop, all the while staring daggers at his friend. The detective paid him no mind. John was struck with sudden inspiration. He took his laptop and settled down in the spot he had just vacated on the other side of Sherlock. He focused on keeping his voice as neutral as possible and addressed his flatmate.

"Damn. Hey Sherlock? Would you mind handing me my tea?"

Sherlock turned to him, his eyes suspicious. John just stared back, meeting his eyes with defiance. He did not try to hide his true intentions, he knew Sherlock couldn't resist a challenge. Sherlock knew John knew this little fact about him and glared as he reached down to where John had left the cup on the floor. The army doctor's eyes darted to the reaching hand, watching it's progress. Sherlock sighed and handed the cup over in a weak, shaking grip, knowing that he wasn't getting out of this now. John was very protective, and any sign of illness automatically brought out a new brand of stubbornness in the man. He _was_ a doctor after all.

John's arm shot out and captured Sherlock's wrist while his other removed the cup from his grasp and set it down on the cluttered coffee table. He looked over the limb while observing the slight tremors, settled now that the stress of grasping the small object was gone. He looked up at Sherlock but the man refused to meet his eyes. He held on to the hand, turning it over and studying the delicate fingers. His own hand rubbed soothingly along the pale skin, but he was lost in his thoughts and unconscious of the intimate touch. _Since when does Sherlock __**shake?**__ The man may be a ball of energy, but he always moves with such grace, not spastic like this._ He looked down to it's pair sitting limply in Sherlock's lap. The left was nowhere near as bad as Sherlock's dominant hand, barely twitching in it's place on his thigh. John frowned, there was much more to this then a nervous reaction.

He looked up again to see Sherlock staring at the hands caressing his, and John stopped his movements but kept the hand when the detective's mouth began to form a pout of disappointment. "Sherlock, how long has your hand been shaking like this?"

Sherlock looked up and tried to pull the offending limb away. John gripped it tight, there was no way the man was going to avoid his questions. Sherlock glared at him but answered anyway.

"I noticed the tremors nearly two and a half weeks ago."

"Two weeks! Your hand has been shaking for _weeks_ and you didn't bother to _mention_ it?" John said indignantly, his voice rising.

"There is no need to shout John. It is not my fault you are so terribly unobservant."

"Unobservant? For God's sake Sherlock! You were _hiding_ it from me!"

"No excuses John."

The doctor huffed in annoyance. "Don't make this about me Sherlock. This could be serious. Have you noticed any other symptoms? Pain? Nausea? Vertigo? _Anything_ else?"

The detective must have decided that the best course of action was to co-operate. He looked into the blue eyes before him somewhat hesitantly, he knew the good doctor would not take the news well.

"I have also been experiencing frequent migraines and blurry vision. Nothing I can't handle, but bothersome nonetheless." John's hand tightened on his and Sherlock raised his brow. "So what is your diagnosis Doctor? What ails me?" He asked teasingly, pushing the worry to the side in hope that John wouldn't notice. Sherlock may be in denial, but he was no idiot. He knew this was serious.

John did too and his heart was frozen in fear. He was even more alarmed to see the terror in the grey eyes before him, impatience etching the younger man's face. Sherlock may be a skilled actor, but John was skilled in reading Sherlock and saw through the façade.

The doctor went for nonchalance. "Mmhmm, I see. And how long have you been experiencing these other symptoms?"

"The headaches have been around for about a month, but are steadily getting worse. The blurred vision began last Tuesday."

John's act cracked. "That long?" He asked in a small voice. How could he have missed it?

"It isn't your fault John." Sherlock said in the most comforting voice he could manage. John let out a nervous laugh. Sherlock was the one that was ill, but he was trying to keep John together. How absurd.

"Yes well. I just... I should have noticed." John paused and closed his eyes. When he opened them again he found a question in Sherlock's eyes. Right. "Sherlock..." He began gently. "I want to run some tests okay? -At Bart's- I just want to make sure it's nothing serious." He said placatingly.

"I don't like hospitals John. I don't see why you can't just tell me what is wrong."

"Because Sherlock, I have to be certain. And don't you worry, I'm your doctor so I can be with you every step of the way if you'd like."

Sherlock just nodded his assent. The detective went to pull away from John's grasp when terror struck him. John could see it in the widening of his eyes.

"John, what if I? What if I cannot conduct my experiments anymore? If the shake stays? Oh god. John! What if I can no longer play my violin?" The fear in this last statement struck John hard, Sherlock no longer tried to hide his emotions and John could see the pain clearly on his friend's face. "I _need_ to play my violin John."

John's hands moved of their own accord, desperately trying to calm down the man in front of him. They stroked soothing patterns across the detective's wrists and Sherlock's hand relaxed into the touch. "You're going to be fine Sherlock. You still have to play for me on Christmas remember?" Sherlock rolled his eyes, the army doctor was insistent his playing become a holiday tradition, his friend preferring his playing to the original carols of the season. Yet, the request had the desired affect and Sherlock no longer looked so worried. A promise was a promise after all.

John pulled his hands back reluctantly, and picked up his laptop again. He started it up and said "We'll go tomorrow then." decisively to the screen.

Sherlock didn't answer, and instead turned his head and stared out of the window. They sat like that in companionable silence, both lost in their own thoughts and fears.

.oOo.

The next morning had them leaving bright and early for St. Bart's, John having called in a favour for a last minute appointment. They were called into a patient's room and allowed to wait in private.

Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently. "Tell me again why _you_ cannot perform the tests? I do not see the point in waiting around and wasting valuable time when there are more pressing matters to attend to."

"Oh _please,_ Sherlock." John said with a roll of his eyes. "You told me yourself there was nothing you could do for the case until nightfall. There is nothing more important you could possibly be doing right now. And we went over this, I'm a GP. This is not my area of expertise."

At the last comment Sherlock raised his eyebrows and his mouth turned up in a smirk.

"_Fine._ Maybe, just _maybe_ I wanted a second opinion. This is not a situation to take lightly."

Sherlock seemed to accept this answer and looked up right before the handle on the door began to turn. In walked a woman of about thirty with long, dark, curly red hair. She smiled at them as she reached out to shake Sherlock's hand.

"Good morning gentlemen. I'm Dr. Green, and you must be Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, yes?" Her eyes turned to John as she reached for his hand after briefly grasping Sherlock's.

"Yes, I am Dr. Watson, we spoke on the phone, and you can call me John. This is my fr-er- patient, Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock tilted his head in acknowledgement and the woman's eyes shone at John's slip. She had heard of them then.

"Alright Mr. Holmes, John here told me some of your symptoms, but I'd like it if you could tell me anything unusual you may have experienced lately, besides the tremors."

.oOo.

A few hours later saw the pair waiting once again. The morning had been long and full of tests and talking, surprisingly with very few outbursts from one infuriating consulting detective. The stress and seriousness of the situation was wearing thin on the both of them and had even John itching and ready to get back to Baker Street. Luckily, it was not long before Dr. Green returned, smiling slightly as she re-entered the room.

"Alright you two, we're going to have to wait for the results, but until then Sherlock," she stared pointedly at the detective. "Please tell Dr. Watson of any new or worsening symptoms. He has my number. I expect to receive the results by Thursday, so I'll be in touch. Take care gentlemen." And with that, the woman left, effectively dismissing them. Sherlock sprang up and stalked towards the door, winding his scarf around his neck as he did so, John trotting along after him.

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><p><strong>Author's note-<strong> Hello my lovelies. This was my first attempt at a multi-chapter fic (Before _Excerpts_) and it is extremely important that I get it right so I hope you'll be patient with me. Beware of slow updates! The title "Love you through it" refers to Martina McBride's song _I'm gonna love you through it_. I'm not much of a country fan, but parts of her song fit beautifully and may make more of an appearance later on. Sorry about the Christmas carol reference, I loved it when he played in ASIB and ACD!John always loved Sherlock's playing.

** Reviews** would be _very_ much appreciated, and any advice would be great. I didn't want it to be _too_ dark for a reason but I feel like this needs more angst. Perhaps soon, yes?

For my Bloo, the Sherlock to my John, the missing part of me. I love you so much hun!


	2. Waiting

**A/N: Sorry for the long wait! Do not fear, I have not abandoned any of my stories or you, my dear readers. I am just extraordinarily busy, and I beg your forgiveness for the wait. **

**Warnings for a possible rewrite of chapter one in the not-so-near future, a ridiculous amount of time between updates, and that I should definitely not write after my psychology class. Ever. It makes me want to diagnose things. Oh and this is unbeta'd. Or un-betaed. However you spell it.**

**Haha! You now cannot complain as you have been warned so graciously beforehand. Enjoy!**

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><p>Waiting was the worst part. They mostly went on with their lives as normal, but it was always hovering around everything they did, lurking beneath the surface, just waiting to pop out at the most inconvenient of times. It was a gentle reminder that something wasn't completely right, a reminder that something was in fact, entirely wrong. Usually they could ignore it, avoid it at all cost, pretend they weren't aware of it's presence. But then something would happen, someone would say something, or John would witness one of Sherlock's… symptoms and all of a sudden it would become something they could no longer ignore.<p>

John became anxious and worried, jumping every time Sherlock's phone rang, his heart barely stopping it's hurried pace when Sherlock would look at him, a strange expression on his face and quietly say "Lestrade," before turning away and focusing his attention on whatever the Detective Inspector had to tell him. The wait was driving him mad, worry plagued him, and that was how John Watson found himself hovering about, fretting over his friend until he finally snapped. It had been a bit early in the morning, (which no doubt only helped it along) just as the tea had finished boiling that the wait proved to be too much for the army doctor and he rounded on his friend.

"Well, when the hell is she going to get back to us? It's been a week! It couldn't have taken so long to get the results! She said she'd get back to us by Thursday, well Thursday came and bloody went didn't it? So where is that damned phone call?" His voice raised to nearly a shout by the end of his tirade, but Sherlock barely looked up from the compound microscope he had stationed on the table. The detective did not move, but nevertheless looked amused from where he sat perched on the edge of a kitchen chair.

"Ah, yes. The doctor. I was wondering why you had been so tense. She called."

"Of course that's why I've been tense! Aren't you the least bit worried?" John shot back, incredulous, before he finally caught up with the rest of Sherlock's sentence. His friend just sat there with a smirk on his face, nodding once before turning back to his current experiment when his statement seemed to have clicked in the doctor's mind.

"Wait, what? She called? And you didn't bother to tell me?" John groaned. Why was he always the last to know? "Well, what did she say?"

"Not… much," he drawled, "just wanted me to come in for the results. I couldn't be bothered."

John had to forcefully stop another aggravated groan from escaping his lips, and instead grit his teeth and snarled out his next words, anger flooding him. "Couldn't be bothered, Sherlock? What if it's serious?" His tone seemed to have a marginally greater affect on his friend than any whine, groan, or tut would have, and he watched with satisfaction as the detective shifted uncomfortably in his seat, still not looking at him.

"Well, I assumed that if it had been life threatening she would have told me so on the phone, however, she did not, so I moved on."

John let loose a roar of frustration, stepping forward and flicking off the microscope's light and forcing Sherlock to look at him. "That doesn't mean anything! Did it even cross that brilliant mind of yours that it was so serious she needed to tell you in person?"

"Well-" The word was barely out of his mouth before John cut him off angrily.

"No of course it didn't! Why would it? What does it matter after all? Oh I know, you could just be DYING!"

John was shaking, his arms were raised and his chest was moving rapidly. There it was. Out there, in the open. The one word he dared not speak since he had first learnt of Sherlock's symptoms. What if this was worse then they thought? What if the great Sherlock Holmes, who constantly put himself in contact with the most deadly of men, was brought down by his own body?

They looked away from each other, and Sherlock whispered his next words to the floor. "We'll go see her tomorrow."

.oOo.

Once it was decided, John was able to relax more than he had all week, even letting a few blubbering housewives and a hysterical mother plead their case to the famed sleuth with nothing more than a genuine smile on his face. Sherlock had solved the last case quickly, and he had been itching for a new one for days. It really was in everyone's best interests that he find another, and soon.

Regretfully, none of the people who came to him sparked the detective's interest or was given more than the minimum level of thought. He actually managed to turn one woman away before she had even finished her weeping monologue. John glared at him in a way that said that that was more than 'a bit not good' but Sherlock only rolled his eyes, and glared at the seat the woman had just vacated.

"She knows exactly what happened to her fiancé, she's just putting on a show. Wants to put on the whole 'poor me' act to get pity and make it sound like she's some innocent victim. She in fact, is not. She was cheating on him and he got wind of it and left, simple as that. I'm not going to be a part of her play."

John heaved a sigh, "You know you always could-"

"No."

"Just give it a chance, you don't even know what it's about!"

"No."

John raked a hand through his hair and let his head fall back against the headrest of his seat. At this rate he'd be lucky to have any blond hair left, surely living with Sherlock could make anyone go prematurely grey. He squeezed his eyes shut tight. "Don't be so stubborn. He's your brother, Sherlock. Not some- some- evil villain that you've sworn your life against!"

"Basically."

John shot a glare at his friend. "Don't be a child. He's been bugging you -and me- all morning, I'm sure he wouldn't bother if the case were not even a little bit interesting! You've turned down everyone that's come through the door, the Yard is doing fine without you, and god only knows we both need a distraction right now! The least you could do is give it a chance."

Sherlock's brows furrowed and his face formed into a pout, he pulled his long legs up onto his seat and sat there, cross-legged, his arms folded across his chest looking every bit the petulant child he was acting. He heaved a sigh that spoke of long suffering before conceding defeat. "Very well. If you must call him, be sure that you tell him that it is not for his benefit that I take this case."

John raised an eyebrow, and the corners of his mouth turned up in a humourless grin. "I'm sure he would have known that before I even picked up the phone."

.oOo.

A few hours later saw them sitting in a slightly pretentious coffee shop with their new client. It had been Mycroft's brilliant idea to not attend the meeting as long as Sherlock was in one of his dark moods. It's always best not to move those along, and the elder Holmes and John spent more time than not trying their damnedest to not provoke him. However, luckily for John, he seemed to be the only human Sherlock could stand when in one of his moods. Yes. Good for John.

The past few days had been made John Watson's own living hell by much more than just waiting for possible heart crushing test results. Sherlock had gone full out Black Mood. Black Mood was the term John used to describe the detective's lowest of lows, the worst of the worst. Times when the ex-army doctor would nearly pray for wall shooting boredom instead.

While Sherlock spent a worrying amount of time not talking, John would sometimes toy with the thought of bipolar disorder plaguing his friend, giving excuse to the rapid mood swings of intense emotion, both good and bad. Explaining both the energy filled manic episodes during cases, and the time without when he would laze about for days in little but his dressing gown, despair radiating off of him. But with every other diagnosis doctors had tried to make stick, John never paid it more than a cursory thought. It was just what made Sherlock, Sherlock. He was not manic-depressive, did not have Asperger's, and, John thought smugly, was definitely not a sociopath, high functioning or other.

Even so, John had been concerned Sherlock's mood would take a turn past even worse (with Sherlock Holmes anything is possible) and head for what ever was deeper than rock bottom. He worried constantly that the detective would relapse into old habits. The doctor took to watching the detective more closely, even rifling through his belongings when he was gone from the flat to make sure that there wasn't anything in which to tempt his friend. He also re-stocked his Sherlock Black Mood kit, with extra nicotine patches, an emergency pack of cigarettes, and tea, lots of tea.

So really, it was no surprise why John had practically jumped for joy at the first hint of a new case, because he couldn't bear seeing Sherlock so depressed any longer. The brain stagnates with inactivity, and he didn't need Sherlock looking to something else for stimulation. The man sitting across from them was not very old, he couldn't have been much more than thirty-five. He had dark brown hair and dark brown eyes, looked inoffensive and at ease with their surroundings, and was obviously a regular at this particular coffee-house. He was perfectly ordinary in every way, and the only thing out of place was the grave look on his face.

Sherlock glared at him through narrowed eyes while they listened to his story. His name was Elijah Cole and for all intents and purposes seemed to be the victim of a simple theft. Nothing interesting at all, and John was disappointed that Mycroft thought _this_ would hold his younger brother's attention.

Sherlock seemed to be thinking along the same lines. "Yes, yes, you lost all of your money, poor you. Now, is there something else you feel the need to bore us with? Because I neglect to see anything of importance in your long and tedious narrative."

Elijah sighed and looked at Sherlock with a tired, but slightly stricken expression. "Yes, I'm sure this is not up to the standards of the predicaments you are usually presented with Mr Holmes, but I haven't even gotten to the heart of my trouble, you see, so please, I beg of you, to hear me out." He turned his heartbroken expression on John, "please."

John turned to Sherlock with his eyebrows raised, eyes silently pleading with Cole for Sherlock to be decent, just for once. The detective turned his glare on his friend, taking in his doe-eyed expression and softened almost imperceptibly. He did not move his eyes from John's as he said stiffly, "Very well, continue" to their lacklustre client. Before he turned back to the man across from them his features hardened once again into an expression that blatantly said, _Do not attempt this again. It will not end well for you._

John smugly turned back to Cole; not even consulting detectives were immune to cuddly jumpers and puppy-dog eyes. And if John had to resort to that type of manipulation to get Sherlock to take what seemed to be their dullest case yet, well, it was a price he had to pay.

Elijah looked between the pair curiously, wondering what silent communication had occurred to change the famed sleuth's mind. "I did not just lose my money that night sir, I also lost my wife. She- She has been missing for three weeks now."

Both John and Sherlock perked up at this statement. Now this was more like it.

.oOo.

It seemed that Cole's troubles began nearly a month ago when he took a trip to Dublin with his wife, Julia. The whole affair had been suggested by one of his wife's co-workers who had gushed about a hotel called Camelot's Castle that had made John snort. They spent their days enjoying the Irish countryside and their nights enjoying their cheesy hotel room. It was an entirely uneventful trip. That is, until Elijah was called back to London only a few days into their trip under the guise of an emergency. There was no such thing. His wife had stayed behind as he was expected to return before the week was out, but when he came back early, his wife, belongings, and as he later found out, the contents of his bank account were gone.

He filed a report with the local police force, but they said the same thing Scotland Yard did when he turned the case over to them, his wife left him and took all of his money. Terribly sorry for your loss, now we have some _real_ crimes to deal with if you'd kindly take your leave.

Cole was left to pick up the pieces of his life back in London, but he couldn't accept what everyone else already had as his fate. In his mind, his wife would never have done this and that only made the fact that no one had heard from Julia since even more worrying. He was adamant in her innocence and insistent that an actual crime had befallen her.

Even if something heinous had occurred, it was still not the most appealing of crimes, but they were desperate so with a swish of an exceedingly dramatic coat and an apologetic look from the short doctor, they were on the case and out on the streets of London once again.

.oOo.

Back at the flat, Sherlock stood across the room from John, plucking gently at the strings of his violin. It was often his go-to action, something he used anytime he needed something to help him get away, and the use of more… nefarious methods of escape were forbidden. He stood near the window, his back to the room, letting the music surround him in a gentle, soothing caress. He was lost to the world, wrapped up in the notes and emotions he could evoke so easily with the simplest of movements. John sat on the couch, his eyes closed, letting the sound wash over him, calming him. He loved to hear Sherlock play, loved to see this brilliant man get so swept up in the music that he was gone, a slave to the melody. His passionate, poet's soul at war with the cold analytic sleuth inside him.

John was slowly drifting off to sleep just as it happened. All of a sudden, the sweet melody stopped with a screech. John's head jerked up, his eyes finding Sherlock in a matter of seconds. Barely veiled anger rolled off the detective in waves, and he clutched the neck of the instrument in a tight, shaking grip. John's eyes raked over his friend, taking in the frustrated eyes and the slight tremors wracking throughout the elegant hands, through the lightly muscled forearms. He moved forward swiftly, taking the Stradivarius from the detective's grasp.

Sherlock's eyes were desperate and pleading, and John had to work at uncurling the fingers from their grip on both bow and violin. He worked at them slowly, never taking his eyes from Sherlock's as he pried the elegant digits away, one-by-one, trying to express without words that he could trust him, that if there were anyone in the world that Sherlock could trust, it would be John. Sherlock let go, and John moved to set the instrument aside, his heart curiously mourning the loss of contact.

He turned back to Sherlock, a question in his eyes. The detective sighed, and when he spoke, his voice was small. "I- I can't play John. When I try- it starts. The tremors. They make it unbearable, I am unable…"

Sherlock looks lost, oh so lost, and John can't help but move forward and gather him in his arms, his forehead resting against his friend's shoulder, eyes buried in the strong muscle he finds there, lips pressing gently to the fabric of his shirt. Sherlock is frozen in his arms, tense and still from the moment they first made contact. He listens to John's soft breathing, and melts into the embrace, his arms moving slowly to wrap around the shorter man, his head falling into the crook of a tanned neck. John smiles into Sherlock's shirt as they grip each other tightly, tremors nearly forgotten.

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><p><strong>AN:** Sorry once again for the long wait my dears! Thank you all for your patience and kind words! Your reviews truly make my day, and I have no idea how to express my gratitude.

Just so you know, I feel like there is something wrong with this chapter. If you find it _please_ tell me.

I must apologize for an intentional blending of this Sherlock, and ACD's Holmes. Yes I know they are essentially the same character, but Sherlock is... different in a few important ways. However, I could not resist slipping into Victorian times as I had Sherlock play his violin, I much prefer John liking his playing like Watson does, then the fandom standard I'll-stand-it-as-long-as-it's-not-screeching view John seems to like so much. I hope you don't hate me for it, like John I tend to... add a bit more sentiment to things then I should. It's a curse. But I know how much this fandom needs fluff and sadly this fic (like my others) will be lacking in that area. (I wonder why?)

**Long note is long,** and probably tricked you into thinking this was bigger than it was (Sorry about that, I hate it too) but if you've read the entire thing then thank you! You are too kind. Oh, and Bloo? Don't worry dear, I didn't forget you. I love you hun! I hope this is living up to your expectations.


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